


Pylades & Orestes

by teeglow



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: An Aramis Whomst Is Filled With Regret, Angsty Aramis, Porthos is too good for this world, too pure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22911706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teeglow/pseuds/teeglow
Summary: It's New Year's Eve and Aramis may or may not have put his commission in jeopardy. (He hasn't really and thankfully Porthos is on hand to remind him to stop being dramatic).Or: Porthos is an excellent friend and Aramis never stops marvelling about it.
Relationships: Ana de Austria | Anne d'Autriche/Aramis | René d'Herblay, Aramis | René d'Herblay & Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Pylades & Orestes

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the 'loving friends' of Greek Mythology. Inspiration taken from the (incredibly sexy) line in the translation about looking after one another even though certain people make it hard - spot it in the fic tbqh.

It’s New Year’s Eve in Paris and whilst Aramis might usually be found in the thick of the celebrations, tonight he is alone. He sits in the back of his room at the garrison, head in his hands, because here, at the precipice of new beginnings, he feels lost. 

He shouted at the captain.

It’s not that the captain didn’t deserve it - he did, at least a little bit - but Aramis can scarcely believe he snapped like that at a man who was not only his superior, but his friend (his  _ father,  _ really, if he would admit it). It feels at this moment like the actions of a different man. Usually so quick to smiles, to laughter - simultaneously unfazed enough to be able to find the serenity in a complex situation and disastrous enough to choose the most reckless solution - it doesn’t often occur to him to shout at anyone. Not unless pushed.    
  
Treville pushed him tonight. But probably, Aramis thinks now, for the right reasons. It sharpens the shame momentarily and he groans where he sits, filled with regret.

Truth be told, he’s been on edge since the convent. He just wishes he hadn’t chosen now to be an arse about it.

Athos had taken a blade to the arm earlier that day. It was nothing - more than a scratch, but he wasn’t going to lose his arm, or anything even close to that. He could still pick up his sword and that’s what mattered. But Aramis had been scared. Scared because it had been his fault. He hadn’t been there. Athos had taken over guard duty at the palace, taking one withering look at Aramis, daring him to tell him it was his turn, and Aramis, under duress and truthfully a little relieved that he didn’t have to see the Queen and her bump when he wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to stay away, stayed silent. He patrolled the marketplace instead. But that’s not where the idiots tried to get in, is it?

He sighs heavily. If he hadn’t slept with the Queen - if he hadn’t committed high fucking treason - this would never have happened. Athos wasn’t even badly off, he was fortunate that the foolish would-be ransackers were unskilled as well as desperate, but the sight of him being supported through the garrison gates, blood dripping down his arm, made Aramis feel sick. 

And then Treville wouldn’t let him in the infirmary. 

_ Oh God. _ Aramis cringes at the memory. He shouldn’t have shouted at him. What possessed him?

He’d be lucky if he still has a commission come the morning.

Aramis can still hear the celebrations outside, the laughter and the clinking of bottles, and he has never felt more alone. He runs his hands through his hair and rests them at the back of his neck sorrowfully.  _ What a way to start the year. _

A small knock at the door threatens his self-imposed isolation, and there’s no need to see a face to know who it is. The door creaks open and heavy boots appears in Aramis sightline, one after the other. He looks up dolefully at the intruder (though not really an intruder at all, given that it’s his room too. Aramis elects to overlook that in his misery). Porthos smiles knowingly back at him.

‘What am I going to do with you, eh?’ Porthos says softly, as he drops to sit beside his friend. Aramis gives a small huff in attempt at reply but otherwise stays silent, legs drawn up tighter to his chest. He scratches the back of his neck absently.

Porthos nudges him with his shoulder. ‘Are you gonna tell me what all that was about?’

Aramis huffs again. ‘Wasn’t planning to.’

‘Ah well, best laid plans.’ Aramis remains silent and he can almost hear Porthos roll his eyes. ‘Oi. Spill.’

Aramis sighs heavily, his legs loosening. He really doesn’t want to talk about it, and even if he did, he can’t really anyway. He has to be careful, and he’s not used to that with Porthos. Everything with Porthos has always been so easy, he’s never had a reason to be guarded with him, and this thing - this one thing - has ruined all of that. 

Perhaps treason, he reasons, constitutes more than one thing though - it’s hardly _ insignificant _ . 

‘I’m just tired is all,’ he says in the end. It’s the only thing he can think of and as soon as he’s said it, he knows it’s not nearly good enough. Porthos is having none of it.

‘I’ve seen you tired mate, I’ve seen you bloody exhausted, but I’ve seen only ever seen you shout at the Captain once. When your mate-’

‘Don’t-’

‘Well, no. Alright.' He (thankfully) tails off that train of thought but is otherwise not to be dissuaded. 'But still. Don’t blame this on tired. You know me better than that. And I know _you_ , you idiot.’

Aramis doesn’t say anything, because of course Porthos knows - he’s always known him, been able to see right through to the heart of him, and this is the first time Aramis has ever had to hide it. It hurts.

‘Athos is fine, by the way,’ Porthos interjects, trying a different tack in the face of Aramis’ reticence. ‘Annoyed mostly. Doc’s given him a sling to wear, it’s hampering his drinking. I left d’Artagnan to deal with it.’

He waits for Aramis to laugh but he doesn’t seem discouraged by the small smile he gets instead. He nudges him in the shoulder again. 

‘You’ve still got your commission, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

The relief Aramis feels at that surprisingly isn’t enough to lift his mood. He had been worried about it - sick about it even - but now that Porthos has confirmed he still has his job (identity, really), he thinks perhaps that was only the smallest portion of his concern. That, actually, when it came down to it, his real fear is how he is going to continue, how he’s going to keep up the facade when the Queen begins to show, when the baby is born, when he has to watch the child grow up from afar. He’s been laid low ever since the pregnancy was announced and already he is absolutely wrung out from the energy required to pretend otherwise. He feels thin; threadbare. He blinks back the sudden urge to cry.

‘Aramis-’

‘It’s okay, I’m just relieved.’ He can’t hear the concern in Porthos’ voice, he knows even the slightest prodding now will lay him bare, and he can’t do it, he can’t do that to his best friend. It’s bad enough that Athos is unwillingly complicit in his affairs, but Porthos - he can never drag down the best man he ever knew through an indiscretion he should have been able to resist. He makes himself so angry sometimes. He exhales through his nose. ‘Can’t believe it.’

‘Oh don’t get me wrong, you’re gonna be mucking out stables for at least a week,’ Porthos says reproachfully, ‘but you know Treville. Or at least he knows you.’

Aramis gives him the palest of smiles in return, thankful for his job, and for the unique understanding of his Captain, and frankly the healing presence of his best friend, even if he can’t reward him for it with the truth he both deserves and doesn’t.

‘So now we’ve established Athos is fine, Treville is fine - are you gonna tell me what’s up with you, now?’ Porthos broaches again. ‘It’s not like you to shout when you don’t have to.’

Aramis finally lets his legs drift out in front of him and shrugs. He has to give Porthos something. ‘I don’t know. Stress of the day, I suppose. I didn’t expect to see Athos dripping with blood today of all days.’

Porthos considers his point. ‘Nah, I s'pose not. And it was stupid of them to try and walk straight through the palace gates. But it’s not like you’ve not seen Athos injured before?'   
  
‘I know. I’m just feeling out of sorts is all.’

‘You’re telling me-’

Aramis smiles fondly. ‘I’ll be fine tomorrow.’

Porthos harrumphs. ‘I was hoping that last week but here we are.’

Aramis grins and Porthos grumbles, a little hint of their old routine, where Aramis is a hurricane and Porthos is the poor man caught in it. (But if you asked him, he would tell you he could never be anywhere else.)

‘Well, fine, you don’t have to tell me what’s up,’ Porthos says after a moment, dragging himself to his feet. He offers Aramis his hand and pulls him up to stand beside him. He dusts him off affectionately. ‘But you do owe me a drink. It is New Year’s after all, and neither of us should be holed up in our bloody own rooms. There’s far prettier company to be had at the turn of the year.’

‘Porthos, you wound me.’

‘Yeah, well. Whatever it takes.’ Porthos claps him on the shoulder and looks at him seriously though now. ‘You know you can tell me anything?’

Aramis nods, knowing full well there’s one thing he can never tell his very best friend in the whole world, and the lie tightens around his heart like a vice. ‘Wherever would I be without you, my friend,’ he says, smiling though he means every word.

‘Daren’t question it,’ Porthos smiles. ‘Fortunately for you, there’s no need.’ He grabs Aramis purse off the table and throws it to him with a grin. Aramis catches the bag and shakes his head as he stows it away.

‘I’m sorry. I’m rotten work,’ he says, with a wry smile.

‘Ah, not you. Not for me,’ Porthos replies, grabbing him by the shoulder and pushing him forward. Aramis doesn’t miss the little squeeze, nor does he miss the sincerity. And as he’s driven out of the door, not for the first time, Aramis wonders what right turn he took to meet this man - this good, gentle, kind-hearted soul. 

Porthos was always meant to be a best friend, could have been one to anyone, but here he is with Aramis. His best friend. His soulmate. Now that’s the sort of stuff that takes him to church every Sunday. 

Maybe that’s the absolution he was looking for tonight. Why else would he have chosen to hide so poorly in their rooms? Maybe he wasn’t so much hiding as waiting.

He knows it’s selfish, because he cannot return the loyalty fully anymore (and he aches with that truth). But he’s glad Porthos found him. Because whatever happens in the coming year - even the birth of his illegitimate child, so surely it seems - with Porthos at his undeserving, cowardly side - well it’s almost enough to give one hope, isn’t it? 

There’s none of that without Porthos. 


End file.
